Whom the Gods Love (32 page)

"Exactly so. You must tell me what you know."

Felix nodded resignedly. "It was the night of the party—the night Falkland was killed. You remember what I told Bow Street—that I was talking with Mrs. Falkland when she said she had a headache and excused herself? That was true, so far as it went. She hadn't looked well all evening. When she was in a strong light, you could see she was pale and tired—fragile, like a wavering flame. You wanted to cup your hands around her, to keep her from going out.

"All the same, she was putting on a brave face, talking with me about one thing and another, and keeping half an eye on the door, so she could greet late arrivals when they came in. All of a sudden she stared, and her face went dead white. She swayed, and I had to catch her.

"She hadn't fainted, quite. She clung on to me, and I knew somehow that she didn't want anyone to know what was happening. Because nobody'd noticed—it all happened so fast, and there was such a crush of people around us. I looked around frantically, wondering if I should call for help, and that was when I saw him—David Adams. He'd just arrived and was standing in the doorway, shooting that hawk-like gaze of his around the room. I realized it was the sight of him that had made her all but lose her senses.

"Next thing I knew, she'd detached herself from me and was plying her fan very fast. You'd never have known anything was wrong, except that she was still pretty white, and there were beads of perspiration on her brow. Adams was looking right at her now, and I thought he might try to come over to her, and I'd have to stop him, which I wasn't looking forward to, because he frightens me into fits. But he didn't come near her, and she didn't look his way.

"She started speaking to me, and her voice was so calm and cool that if you couldn't hear her words, you'd never have guessed she was saying anything out of the common. All the while she kept waving her fan slowly back and forth, as if she were keeping time to music. She thanked me for looking after her and asked if she could count on me to say nothing about her dizzy spell. I said she could count on me for anything, but I was worried she might be ill. She said she wasn't, she'd be all right in a moment, but she was going to leave the party. She said, 'I have a headache. If anyone should ask you, will you tell them I had a headache—and nothing more?'

"I said I'd do anything she asked. But I wasn't happy about it, and I suppose she could see that, because she said she hoped I meant what I said—especially if I'd guessed why she felt faint just then. I got flustered and said I wouldn't presume to guess at such a thing, I was sure I should be wrong in any case, and so on. And she said—well, never mind that, it isn't important—"

"You must let me be the judge of that," said Julian.

"Oh, it was just some flummery." Felix waved his hand as if to blow it away. "She said she thought I noticed a great deal, but unlike anyone else she knew, I didn't repeat anything that was uncharitable. The truth is, I can't keep anything in my head long enough to gossip about it."

"Oh, yes," murmured Julian, "I'm sure that's all it is." 

Felix eyed him uncertainly. "Well, anyway, she said she didn't know of any other gentleman she could trust to conceal what I'd just seen, but she did trust me. Well, that finished me, I can tell you! I swore she could trust me, upon my life. But how could I keep my word, once I heard she was in danger?" He went a little pale. "I say, do you think if I'd spoken sooner—"

"Believe me, it wouldn't have made any difference. The seeds of Mrs. Falkland's accident were sown long before those nails were driven into her saddle. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it."

Felix drew a long breath and nodded. "Why do you think seeing Adams at the party gave her such a turn?"

"I suspect, because she didn't know he was coming. He wasn't invited initially. He demanded an invitation of Falkland, and Falkland acceded, but perhaps he never told his wife."

"Do you think Adams had reason to kill Falkland, and Mrs. Falkland knew it, and that was why she came over queer on seeing him—because she was afraid of what he might do?" 

"There's something in what you say," Julian mused. "But I think it's only part of the answer."

*

When Julian got home, he found his evening clothes laid out as usual. "I won't be needing them," he told Dipper. "Send to the White Horse Cellar and order a post-chaise and pair—no, make it four horses. We've no time to waste." 

"Where are we going, sir?"

"Somerset—a village called Montacute. I want to meet Miss Verity Clare."

22: Blind-Man's-Buff

Before leaving for Somerset, Julian dispatched a note to Vance, telling him briefly that he was going away for a day or two to pursue a lead. He deliberately sent no word to Sir Malcolm, because he was not sure how far he could trust him to keep secrets from Clare. He did not want Clare warned of his intention to see his sister.

As he changed into travelling clothes—a thick wool frock coat and a greatcoat with a short cape attached—he pondered how long the journey would take. It was now Friday evening; absent any mishap on the road, they might cover the hundred and thirty or so miles to Somerset in about ten hours. With luck, they could be back in London before dawn on Sunday. It was a costly investment of time, since he only had till noon on Tuesday to win his bet with de Witt. But there was some mystery surrounding Quentin and Verity Clare, and Julian believed it was the sister, not the brother, who held the key. Someone had to go Somerset and see her; it might as well be he.

Dipper carried out all their preparations with his usual efficiency. By ten that evening they were ready to set out. They made good progress: the roads from London to the West Country were the best in England, and tonight they were quite dry—though the cloud of dust in Julian's eyes and nose soon made him pine for a little rain. The changes of horses were so swift, the travellers hardly had time to get out and stretch their legs before their luggage was tossed into a new chaise, they themselves were more or less tossed in after it, and the chaise dashed madly away. Sleeping was difficult, but they managed it in fits and starts, helped by a liberal supply of brandy.

Julian consulted a county map of Somerset and decided to put up in Yeovil, a town four or five miles from Montacute. He was not sure what sort of accommodation a small village like Montacute might offer; moreover, his arrival by post-chaise would attract attention, and he wanted the advantage of surprise. He had an idea Miss Clare would be anything but pleased to see him—might even try to conceal herself or leave her home until he was gone.

In Yeovil, he found a pleasant old inn that, in time-honoured fashion, was full of labyrinthine passages and inexplicable stairs. There was even a stair running straight through Julian's bedchamber; he had to be mindful of it in crossing the room to keep from falling on his face. He slept for an hour, Dipper having first inspected the bed for "colonists," as he called them. Then he washed, shaved, changed his clothes, and went down to the coffee-room for breakfast, leaving Dipper to sleep or eat or amuse himself, as he saw fit.

After breakfast, he hired a trap and a burly, laconic driver to take him to Montacute. It was a lovely day, the landscape idyllically green and washed with sunshine. All the buildings—farms, mills, churches—were of the same honey-coloured stone. It was obviously local; Julian saw hunks of it "growing wild" along the road. Whole villages gleamed gold in the morning light, the houses half hidden among green trees and splashes of bright flowers.

Montacute was one such gold and green village. It was laid out in an orderly fashion, with two straight streets meeting at a right angle. Looming over it was a woodsy hill crowned with a lone tower. It looked medieval, but Julian's driver said it was only a folly, put up by the local squire some half a century ago.

Julian left the driver at an inn, with enough money to keep him well supplied with liquid refreshment, and strolled into the village. Seeing a stationer's shop with a sign reading POSTMISTRESS, he went in. There were several customers, who all stared at him, then edged a little nearer to overhear his conversation with the woman behind the counter.

"Good morning," he said. "Would you be good enough to tell me where Miss Clare lives?"

"Miss Clare? There be no Miss Clare hereabouts, sir." 

"She doesn't live in Montacute anymore?"

"She never did, sir."

"Are you certain?"

"I've lived here twenty year and more, sir, and never saw hide nor hair of any Miss Clare."

Julian looked blank. Did Clare lead me a dance, he thought, telling me his sister lived in Montacute? It's a devilish long way to come to find a mare's nest—

"Mr. Tibbs has a niece and nephew, name of Clare," volunteered a boy of about twelve, who looked to be the postmistress's son.

His mother and the customers eyed him disapprovingly. They seemed to think strangers, even gentry folk, ought to have to work a little harder to extract information from honest country people.

"Mr. Tibbs's niece doesn't live with him?" Julian asked the boy.

"No, sir."

"Do you know where she does live?"

"Aye, sir. Mr. Tibbs do say she's a companion to a lady on the Continent."

"On the Continent?"

"Aye, sir, the Continent," the boy said positively.

Julian thought a moment, then asked, "Where does Mr. Tibbs live?"

"Close by, sir. Just t'other side of the church."

"Will you point out the house to me?"

The boy glanced toward his mother, who nodded curtly. Julian thanked her, and he and the boy went out.

They skirted the Gothic tower of the church and followed a sun-dappled footpath. "How long has Mr. Tibbs lived in Montacute?" Julian asked.

The boy frowned, thinking. "He come last year, just after Plough Monday."

January of last year, thought Julian—that was about the time Clare joined Lincoln's Inn. "Have you ever seen Mr. Tibbs's nephew?"

"Aye, sir. He's a legal gentleman and lives in London. He come to stay with Mr. Tibbs last Christmas, and for a fortnight at harvest time."

"But you've never seen his sister?"

"No, sir." The boy stopped walking. "This here is the place, sir."

He pointed to a large, well-kept cottage built of the local golden stone. It had a broad front and very small windows, which would have given it a peering, suspicious look but for the nosegay of red and white flowers it wore at one window. In front was a garden bounded by a low stone wall, over which flowering shrubs spilled with impunity.

An old man was hunkered down in the garden, weeding. He wore a worn coat of grey-green wool, leather gaiters, thick gloves, and an old hat with the brim turned down to shield his face from the sun. Hearing Julian and the boy approach, he glanced up, then came to his feet. His gaze fixed on Julian—intrigued, speculative, oddly unsurprised. "Well, well. What have we here?"

He was tall and spare and carried his years extraordinarily well. His face was seamed with wrinkles, but he had such an air of health and vigour, they seemed merely the result of smiling too much or squinting in the sunlight. His eyes were dark and brilliant, his salt-and-pepper hair thick, his voice a full, mellow baritone. Julian was in no danger of mistaking him for a servant. He had the accents and assurance of a gentleman; if he did his own gardening, that was a matter of choice. "Gentleman to see you, sir," said the boy.

"How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?" Julian came forward, extending his hand. "I'm Julian Kestrel."

"Julian Kestrel!" Tibbs marvelled. "I'm honoured." He drew off an earth-stained gardening glove and shook hands. "Don't tell me you came all the way from town merely to see me?"

"Not precisely. But now that I'm here, I should like very much to speak with you."

"I should be delighted. Please come in." He opened the wicket gate into the garden.

Julian thanked the boy and gave him a coin. The boy would have left, but Tibbs stopped him with a graceful gesture of his hand. "Take that round to the back, will you, Sim?" He pointed to a small wheelbarrow he had filled with weeds and stones. "Then tap on the kitchen window and tell Mrs. Hutchinson I said to give you some hardbake."

"Aye, sir," Sim said with alacrity.

Tibbs ushered Julian into the cottage, first scraping the dirt from the garden off his boots. "My housekeeper makes her own hardbake—treacle and almonds, brutal on the teeth, mine wouldn't stand it. But the children like it. I make a point of cultivating children—they're such a good audience." 

"Audience for what?"

"Oh, a man my age, especially one who's travelled as much as I have, accumulates a fount of stories. And mine are all true—though embroidered a bit, of course." He smiled. "Children have a great appetite for amusement, and it amuses me to satisfy it. A thoroughly agreeable arrangement all round. The parlour is this way."

He waved Julian into a large, sunny sitting room, spanning the length of the cottage front to back, with gleaming oak panelling and chintz curtains in a turquoise and yellow print. The back window looked out on a small greenhouse. Tibbs brought Julian over to look at it. "This is my pride and joy. I had it built after I took this house. I've been seized by a passion for gardening since I came to live in the country. I never would have expected it—I'd lived in cities all my life. The front garden is purely decorative, but here I've contrived to grow grapes and peaches. And my cucumber frames, if I may be allowed to say so, are nothing short of magnificent."

He turned to Julian, his brows raised in amused enquiry. "Why this penetrating gaze, Mr. Kestrel? Have I said something exceptionally profound?"

"I was wondering if there's any possibility that we've met before."

"Met before?" Tibbs's eyes opened wide. "I don't see how that's possible. If I'd ever had the honour of your acquaintance, I'm sure I would have remembered."

Julian saw that, beneath his genial, puzzled surface, Tibbs was laughing at him. This was a duel of wits, and he himself was fighting it blindfold. It was disconcerting, but exciting, too. Here was an opponent worthy of his steel.